Hawkweed forty or fifty yards off, red the color I can never manage. Two days ago a pair of fawns tottering through unhayed fields and this morning crows picking the belly of a still-struggling turtle. Last night we stopped to watch enormous cumuli float slowly through sunset and I thought how often the sky resembles the sea. Going down is gone. Certain bodies are unsafe no matter what.
The canoe (red) slides into the lake and mallards discourse accordingly. The carpenter returns my call after two days and we talk about Bob Dylan in the early seventies. Afternoon spent gathering deadfall, dreaming of Vermont. I like your shirt and the way you don't care what it shows or doesn't show. Anniversaries are no longer part of the helpful context.
Clover, rabbit tracks. We make a date for a museum outside Boston and I wonder how necessary travel is anymore. At 2 a.m. a fox raided the neighbor's barn - foolishly left open - and the dog and I went out to check on our own birds, all safe. How bright the sky can be when the moon is hidden away. Two letters sent means you wait on a reply, like August waits for bears.
Antique chairs? One appreciates the inclination to render pattern a narrative and spends more time than usual studying the sprawling stream of the milky way. Bees abound in flowering dogwood. Why deviate from the teacher who teaches that only minds can join? Emily Dickinson always said turn inward tighter and stay there longer.
I love to red your ponderings.
Thank you for reading & being here, Toivo . . .ReplyDelete